


Heavenly Touch Ink

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Beelzebub owns a coffee shop, Coffee Shops, F/M, Gabriel is a lawyer, Ligur is a model????, Love is in the Air, M/M, Other, and I mean everyone, apple blossoms, everyone is in love, have all the aus, kiss, these ocs are cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Turns out, there's this really lovely tattoo shop in Soho. Difficult to get an appointment, but so worth it. The flower shop next door? Owned by a shady fellow. The coffee shop? Possibly a gateway to hell. But the tattoo shop is just *heavenly.*





	Heavenly Touch Ink

**Author's Note:**

> You get an AU and you get an AU and YOU get an AU! Just get them all. All I was missing was the college aspect, but just imagine Professor Hastur LaVista running around somewhere in the background.
> 
> Also, are these two really an angel and a demon? You decide!

"You have to go with me!"

"I don't have to do shit. You're not my manager, Adam." 

Harper restacked the cups along the back wall, placing them in a warm-to-cool gradient. In seven minutes, he'd change them to an alternating pattern before it went back to the standard ROY G BIV.

"I know you're not scheduled that day."

"I know you're not peaking at my schedule," Harper shot back, juggling the green and aqua thermal mugs for sale. "Why's it gotta be that one? It's in Soho."

"It's the best!"

"I don't wanna go all the way to Soho," Harper answered. "Bus fare…."

"I'll drive." Adam lounged on the counter, a Pre Raphaelite-painting in the dim light of the coffee shop, his hair an auburn halo. He had his arms crossed just so, stretched out ahead of him, looking devastatingly tragic. "Please?"

Harper slowly slid the cup back into place. He was losing. He always lost to Adam. It was a gross imbalance that put the Adams of the world on top….

Harper blushed for some reason and hid it quickly by facing the display wall.

"Why this one, though?"

"I'm dead serious. The artist there? You should see his work." Adam was already fetching his phone out. Who cares if it's against policy when they haven't had a customer for two hours now. Tuesdays are trash like that. "Everyone says he's tough to get an appointment with, but it's so worth it."

"Tattoos _hurt," _Harper reasoned. "Don't they?"

"Righteous sunburn. _Worth_ it," he repeated, like he knew a thing or two about tattoos[1]. 

Harper could feel his shadow before Adam slid up next to him, an Instagram page open with gorgeous artwork emblazoned on stranger's flesh. The feed was peppered with a few intimate shadowy shots of flowers, timid compared to the beauty of the ink. Adam put his hand on Harper's shoulder to steady himself as he scrolled through the feed. Harper's brain _zummed_. They'd decide to meet at noon to make the drive over on Sunday.

-•-

The very first day the shop opened, two gentlemen stood outside with a polite gap between them. One was holding a box tucked under his arm, a low cap angled atop his head with a roguish jaunt.

"Good spot."

"Oh, I do think so," said the other man, his plump hands folded delicately on a healthy tummy to match. He was neatly manicured, shirt pressed, hair curling in the afternoon humidity in just the right fashion at his temples. "Took a very long time picking it out."

"Was that while you were in my shop or…?"

"The location is purely coincidental, my dear."

"Mm. Sure it is, Angel." The man sighed and scratched his chin with his perpetually black fingernails. "You got a piercer on your team yet?"

"Gabriel agreed to come aboard for a bit until I can replace him."

"Yegch."

"Oh, he's not that bad. Not like Michael, you know."

The man repeated the throat-clearing sound, adding a nice eye-roll and nose wrinkle to boot.

"I'm sure I'll find a nice local."

"Do it quickly. Don't need Gabriel and his lot mucking about. He’s going to be off completing that degree or what have you and he’s going to be insufferable."

"Quite." 

The friend sighed wistfully and looked a little sad. That wouldn't do. Today was supposed to be his celebration and needed a quick rework to get back on track. The man with the hat tapped the box to his friend's arm. "Gotcha these."

The friend looked down, slowly adjusting his stance to accept the box. "Did you get me _chocolates_, Crowley, dear?"

"Mnn yeh - well. Y...yeah." 

"I thought you'd do a bouquet," he answered slowly, untying the black satin ribbon with a nimble grace. 

"Well... nobody's behaving.”[2] “'Sides, shouldn't waste that stuff, yeah?"

His friend's face momentarily fell, pausing before he opened the lid and looked at the neatly laid chocolates in their little individual cells. They looked scrumptious. Before he sampled the first one, he held the box out to Crowley, who glanced and sniffed and rolled his shoulders.

"Nah, they're for you. I gotta get back."

"Already?"

"'Fraid so. M'boss could be in any minute."

"My dear, _you're _the boss!"

"Right. And I could be in any minute," Crowley said, sauntering down the sidewalk. He gave a little finger-splayed wave. "Check you later, Aziraphale. And change the name!"

Aziraphale blinked, left alone outside. He slowly looked up at his shop again and the sign painted over the door. He kept staring as he plucked one of the chocolates out and popped it in his mouth, instantly moaning as it melted. He was right. Positively delicious. Full of _love_.

-•-

As a part of the appeal, Heavenly Touch Ink liked to keep strange hours. They opened late or early, they closed suddenly, they popped a light back on outside on a whim or a dare, and Tuesdays were strictly forbidden as far as the accounting books went. The team inside consisted of the same friendly man who had stood outside the shop with Crowley–proprietor of the little flower boutique across the street–and a nervous looking young man with glasses who would constantly ask for assistance before and after he did anything. A woman often frequented the establishment with him and helped him with the autoclave and set up. He was easier to get an appointment with and his friendly but anxious nature only brought in a handful of repeat customers. His companion told fortunes, read auras, and discussed popularly unpopular socialist ideals to anyone impressionable or kind or lonely or sitting within three feet of her. They were very darling together and Aziraphale loved them very much.

Anathema and Newt were the ones who were at the quaint little counter that stood as the first guard against customers, rearranging a table of fun little tchotchkes for all the spiritual necessities of the latest Last Witch of England.[3]

"And they're all disinfected?" Newt asked, tilting his head up to catch Anathema's lips just as they barely glanced off his own. He had a lovely aura and a nice personality and not a single psychic bone in his body. Newt simply had that wonderful intuition of _knowing_ when his fiancé would come in for a kiss.

"All of them," Anathema answered. Her voice swallowed him up like a warm purr. "You're all set up. Anybody on the list today?"

"Not yet."

"And it's not the first of the month so no—"

"_–Gabriel_," the two said at the same time, laughing together.

It didn't seem being under Aziraphale's employee worked for the prissy bastard. He went above and beyond to rearrange everything, so he was somehow the landlord and surprisingly a co-owner of Heavenly Touch Ink. They didn't cross paths much. Newt had suspicions Gabriel was a mafia man or something equally strange and terrible. Then again, many others thought the same of Mr. Fell.

"And where, oh where is your happy employer?" Anathema asked as she curled her arms around Newt's neck, kissing his cheek for extra measure.

"Not in?" Newt guessed with a little twist of his mouth. The two looked out the window, half-expecting to see the familiar forms through the shadowy glass of Crowley's little flower shop.

They'd have to keep looking. Especially around two young twenty-something boys who came bouncing up to the shop. One of them was tall and light haired with an excitable light blue aura. He had his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his shirt tucked in neatly into tight jeans, and sturdy black boots that said, "I could get a lot done in these, but I haven't, because they're less for utilitarian wear and definitely for the aesthetic." 

His companion was dressed nearly the same, his aura rosy pink, his hair dark and neat, his clothes frumpier but no less carefully picked to match his friend. Except his boots had mud and an undone lace. And he stood nearly a foot shorter. And he was in love.

"Mr. Fell's appointment," Newt whispered, scrambling up. Anathema stood with more poise, guiding Newt towards the door. He squirmed out the door just before the two boys came in.

"Hello," Anathema said with a warm smile. "Who's the one getting the apple blossom sprigs?"

-•-

"Mr. Fell? Mr. Fell? Mr. Fell, Mr. Fell!"

Crowley's shop was left unlocked because any poor bastard who came in with ill intent found themselves in bizarre and generally messy trouble after the fact. At the very least, claims were made, and proof was impossible to come by, but the general consensus was _you don't fuck with Crowley_. This caveat extended to the shop, of course. Newt was reluctant to come running in the first few times, but he couldn't work the machines in the shop without incurring incredible debts from their sudden combustion or sparking or breaking and he thought a temporary anger over being interrupted a sight better than fear of being permanently terminated. He _really _liked this job.

This morning was tamer than others. He had waited the appropriate two minutes for any clothes to be quickly rebuttoned and pillows to be replaced and hair quickly raked through. He came around the corner to see Mr. Fell on the antique couch, deep in an old leather book while Crowley lounged beside him like a snake draped on a branch. It was Crowley who glanced over at Newt and forced one sharp eyebrow to climb higher. They weren't rosy-cheeked and nobody's top button was misplaced. No snogging interrupted. No..._adult_ activities interrupted. Aziraphale hadn't even looked up from his book.

"What's up, Groot?"

"Newt," Newt mumbled automatically. Mr. Crowley refused to remember his name, apparently on principal. He wouldn't admit it made him mildly upset, enough that he could spread that discontent to others. Mostly right back to Mr. Crowley. "Uh, your tattoo appointment is here."

“Oh, do I have those now?” Crowley asked, letting his head roll on the pivot of his neck so he was facing Aziraphale. It was hard to tell where he was actively looking. Mr. Crowley always wore big mirrored sunglasses, even indoors, and Newt had sort’ve supplemented them in his mind as a permanent replacement for Crowley’s eyes. Still, even with that layer of protection, Newt could sense big puppy-dog eyes coming from the owner of the immensely unpopular and immensely vibrant flower shop.[4] “Should I get up and get a _wiggle_ on?”

“If you take my client, I’ll put a hole in your shoe,” Aziraphale said absently, finding the bottom of the page and slotting a thin bookmark into place. He smiled as he looked up, recognizing Newt at last. “Sorry, what’s it you need, Newton?”

“Your noon appointment,” Newt answered, pointing at the door. “The, uh, the young man.” He drew invisible lines on his wrists, which could be mistaken for a macabre gesture of self-harm but was understood by the party to be a positive mark. “The apple blossoms?”

“Apple blossoms,” Crowley said, amusement plain on his face as though it were painted on like lipstick. “Oh, you are sentimental.”

“It’s a very pretty design,” Aziraphale said, tapping the binding of his book to Crowley’s calf, which had found its way onto Aziraphale’s lap during their little reading time together. “I think even you would like it. And, Madlyn’s has this wonderful hot pink color in stock I got last time they were around. D’you want to see?”

“Yeah, alright.” He stood like a man with too many joints and not enough bones to account for them. Crowley tapped Newt’s shoulder on the way out. “C’mon, Isaac.”

“_Newt_on,” Newt whispered miserably, but Crowley was already up at the front, holding the door. Not for Newt. Crowley held it for Aziraphale, who brought up the rear and thanked Crowley for being chivalrous before they walked across the street.

Crowley’s store, of course, remained unlocked. Nothing bad would come of it.

Probably.

-•-

“...You nervous?”

Harper leaned on the counter next to Adam, who had fetched out his ID and was filling out a form before they could get things started. They still hadn’t seen the fabled artist around, but the nice woman in the stylishly dated clothing promised they’d be right back and when they were done, the two could take a seat.

“Nah,” Adam answered, bumping his shoulder into Harper’s. “You?”

“Me? Why would I be nervous?” Harper’s voice cracked oddly on the last word, betraying something in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat, more embarrassed by the squeak. Puberty is never fun, and he’d just seen himself out of all that rubbish, thank you. No need to replay any of the highlight reel.

Anathema appeared in front of them again, just as Adam had dotted the last “i,” crossed the last “t.” She picked up his ID and something fantastic danced across her pretty eyes.

“Where are you from, Adam?” she asked, even if his address was right there for her to read. Adam shifted, reaching over the top of the paper to tap the spot where he had written it down.

“Over in Lambeth,” he answered and resettled his arms on the counter next to Harper.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Tadfield before,” said Anathema. They dutifully shook their heads in answer and she sighed, pushing perfectly round spectacles up into her hairline. “Lovely little village. You should really see it. There’s an Adam there, wonderful boy. Very bright. Very mischievous. He’s a delight.”

“Oh, yeah?” Adam asked to keep up with the polite chitchat. He nodded, a slow loping bob of his head. “That’s pretty neat.”

“Do you know him, by any chance?”

“Uh, Adam?” Adam and Harper shared a look. “Well, no. Not really. It’s a pretty common name.”

“It is,” she said slowly, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she, in turn, shared a look with them. Or, more accurately, between them. Or, even _more _nice and accurately, between their auras. And she smiled. And she took a nice deep breath and said, “There’s a list of the leaders of corporations that are killing the planet that is readily available for us to see right now on the internet like the thinly veiled curated hit-list it is.”

“Uh…?”

“O-ho-oh?”

“Isn’t that fascinating?” Anathema asked.

“Uhhh.”

“Oh…. Huh,” were their answers before the door opened and three more people joined them. The nervous man from before slipped in and went right over to Anathema to quickly kiss her cheek. She had pushed the form and ID into Newt’s hands on his arrival, thought better of it, took them back, and went to go make copies on their old copier machine.

“Which one of you young lads is getting the tattoo?” asked Aziraphale, stepping into his shop with a bright and breezy air to him. He had shockingly white hair, pale clothes, and a neat little bowtie. He looked like he should be in a library instead of a semi-renowned tattoo parlor. His sleeves went all the way down to his wrists for God’s sake. He didn’t look like he had a single mark of ink on him.

“It’s this tough lad right here, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, stepping up to Harper and clapping him on the back hard enough he would have swallowed gum if he had been chewing any. Harper swallowed air instead, making a strange gulping sound. That was two embarrassing sounds within the hour and that was two too-many in his book.

“No, sorry. That would be me,” Adam said, cool as ever as he leaned against the counter and tried not to laugh at his friend. Harper didn’t know if it would have been better or worse if he had laughed. He just knew he was starting to blush and he hated it.

“Oh. You in for a piercing then?”

Newt perked up at Crowley’s suggestion. He was welcome to have a walk-in. Empty schedule and all….

“What? N-no. No, I don’t…I….”

Harper could have turned out his empty pockets just to show he wasn’t here to do anything but be a sort’ve support to Adam’s wild adventure. But Adam’s impishly beautiful face lit up and he was already reaching for his friend.

“Oh, you totally should!”

“I don’t have any _money_,” Harper shot back, his whisper harsh and desperate.

“I’ll cover you.”

“What? No!”

“You could get your ear done!” Adam tugged on his naked earlobe, then considered it a moment, and tugged on the opposite one. “You could get both! You could do your nose.”

“Not the nose,” said Harper, crinkling his own.

“Lip ring,” Adam said with a distracting swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip. “Eyebrow?”

“Eye…?” Harper tweaked one of his up.

God, he was already slipping again. Something nice and tough like a little eyebrow ring? That’d be wicked. His hair was just long enough to hide it. He was living in that little pillbox with his brother, so Dad would never see. His boss was never in to say shite about if he had an eyebrow ring….

Ugh, no no no! Adam was winning! Again!

Harper had out his wallet to get his ID before Anathema disappeared in the back with both forms. They had picked out a simple silver barbell together. The boys returned to the leather loveseat next to the door to wait while everything was set up.

-•-

“You nervous?”

“No!” Harper answered too quickly and shucked his shoulders up to his earlobes. He couldn’t believe it was this damn easy to go about getting a piercing. There should be days to process. There should be legal forms! There should be—

“I’ll hold your hand,” Adam offered, putting his own open hand atop Harper’s knee. Harper stared down at it like it was a piece of superheated copper burning through his Levy’s. “You can go first and then you gotta come hold my hand when I get mine done, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Harper repeated, softer, still studying Adam’s palm. He had a very nice palm. Good, solid lines that would tell of happy fortunes and three kids or something or other. Harper didn’t read palms. Anathema did, but neither of them knew to ask her.

“Yeah. Promise.”

“Right, Harper?”

They each looked up at Newt as he snapped the bottom of his glove against his wrist, much like a surgeon might in some hokey medical drama[5]. Harper jolted at the sound all the same, several orifices closing up on his body.

“Are you ready, then?” Newt asked. He smiled. He had a kind face and a quiet way about him that made him seem, at least in the moment, quite competent. To be certain, he wouldn’t be employed if he wasn’t competent.

“I mean, yeah,” Harper said, standing up too quickly that he bounced on his toes. Adam caught him before he spilled over onto the floor from a head rush. “Yeah,” he said again, straightening out how his clothes. “Hell yeah.”

“Hell yeah,” Crowley said from the back of the store, looking down at a big book with ornate Japanese-style tattoos. There was a lovely ink-washed serpent splattered across the front cover. He pumped his fist once in the air and mouthed a very muted _wahoo_. Mr. Fell glanced up at him from his station and gently swatted his knee.

“Hell yeah,” Harper whispered to himself again. He stepped around the counter, around Anathema’s semi-permanent[6] display, and around Adam seated on the couch, who took a moment to register it was really time to do this.

Newt patted a big leather chair that wouldn’t look off with belts and straps coming out of the thing. There was a little stool next to it for Adam, who sat and spun around twice before he righted himself to face Harper. He immediately leaned in and stole Harper’s hand off his lap, lacing their fingers without comment. Harper gasped, not at all from the cold little bit of cotton swab across his brow.

“Lots of folks,” Newt explained, working quietly and quickly, “think this clamping bit is the part that hurts the most. It’s just a pinch. Like so.” He pinched Harper’s forearm with his rubber gloved-fingers and Harper flinched from the strange contact. “Like that. Not so bad, right?”

Harper gripped Adam’s hand tighter. He supposed he needed to answer and gave a little nod.

“Right, don’t move your head,” Newt said and helped shift Harper’s face, so he was angled up just right. A pair of cold steel plyers clamped down over a nice healthy bulge of skin over his brow. His palms were already starting to sweat, and he sucked his bottom lip up between his teeth, biting down hard enough to leave little indents in his skin. “This is going to be easy as cake.”

“Fuck cake,” Harper muttered through his teeth.

Adam chuckled, a distractingly sweet sound that made Harper glance over, or at the least attempt to. He was reminded to hold still and closed his eyes, missing the deceiving “one-two” count before there was a dull sting and a giant needle dangling in front of his eye. Then that slid away careful as can be, replaced with the jewelry. Newt was saying some encouraging words, explaining how it was almost done. It was surprising how little this hurt, how it was sudden, yes, a pinch, yes, but ultimately not the terrible torment he was expecting. To be certain, Harper was more focused on Adam squeezing his hand and mouthing how cool he thought it looked.

Harper _felt_ cool.

“…and you’ll want to change your pillow case,” Newt was explaining, dabbing away the little spot of blood from Harper’s eyebrow. He finally stood up to go fetch some cleaning solution, his piercing items laid out neatly on a tray and his gloves shucked. Whatever he was saying was probably important and probably could be found on a google search. Harper sat up and Adam stood right between his legs to get a good look at it.

“How’s it feel?” he whispered excitedly.

“Not that bad,” Harper admitted. “Stings. Kinda don’t wanna talk too much ‘cause I keep sorta moving it. Gonna be a bitch tomorrow.”

“Absolutely.” Adam grinned and reached up, pinning Harper’s opposite eyebrow down with his index finger. “You keep moving them anyways. You’re gonna have to hold them down.” He was teasing, but his finger was like a staple to Harper’s face and he froze, just looking up at him. “It looks good. Like, really good.”

“Y…yeah?”

“Worth it?” Adam’s finger gently brushed Harper’s eyebrow down, maybe an accident, maybe just a friendly gesture.

“…Yeah.”

Adam patted Harper’s cheek, looking away when it was apparent that the tattoo artist had called for him. He disappeared around the bulky leather chair, leaving Harper to sit there and ruminate in the various contact points that were igniting across his face. He couldn’t stay there long, of course. He had to hold Adam’s hand, as promised.

Adam was sitting patiently with both arms held out like he was practicing invisible hand curls. Mr. Fell pressed contact paper over his wrists, then peeled them to reveal purple outlines, shadows of what was to come. It was bright over in this corner of the shop, ignited with warm light that radiated around the station. Crowley was still half-seated on the large black tool cabinet that held all of Mr. Fell’s equipment. The top was stacked with different books on design, on inspiration, on prophecies and philosophies, on tea ceremonies and biscuit recipes. They had to just turn their head to see three overstuffed bookshelves that spilled trails of mismatched knowledge towards the back of the shop, closed off by a door.

“Just go take a look over there,” Mr. Fell said and pointed to a large standing mirror.

Adam stood in front of it, twisting his arms this way and that, relaxing them to see what would peek out when he was just standing. He turned to flash the design to Harper. Two sprigs apple blossom branches sloped towards his pinkies that, when his arms were pressed together in a frankly _un_comfortable position, they would form a vague “v” shape across his skin.

“Whatcha think?”

“It’s pretty,” Harper said with a shrug. “You’re gonna have it forever, so. What do _you_ think?”

“That it’s gonna be fuckin’ brilliant,” he said. He held his hands out to Harper, like a beggar. Harper stared at his palms for a moment before he tentatively reached for them. Adam laughed, taking his hand anyway. “No, I mean, it looks good, right?”

“Oh.” Harper immediately lifted out of Adam’s grasp and brushed his fingers through his hair, trying not to blush again. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, it looks good, I said, didn’t I?”

Adam either didn’t notice or pretended not to notice Harper’s embarrassment. He clapped twice and put his fists up in the air in victory before wheeling back around to Mr. Fell. “We’re good to go!”

“Oh, excellent.” Mr. Fell patted the second leather seat in the shop. “Crowley, dear? Would you like to put on some music?”

“Aye aye, Angel,” Crowley answered with a tap of his fingers to his naked brow. Harper watched him for a moment. He had the wiggliest hips in the world, a sashay that would do just as well with a pair of stiletto heels. It almost looked uncomfortable. He sauntered across the shop, leaned half his body over the counter to reach a button on the wall, and continued to lounge there with his ankles gently crossed as he thumbed through his phone and music started playing.

Harper wondered if he should have guessed it was some song from the 70s. Something almost recognizable, maybe his parents played it on records or something. TV ads. Something.

_Fear me you lord and lady preachers. I descend upon your earth from the skies. I command your very souls and unbelievers, bring before me what is mine. The seven seas of rhye_._**[7]**_

“Right,” said Mr. Fell, bringing Harper’s attention back over to them.

The ritual of setting up, of sitting, was nearly to a close. Mr. Fell, the conductor of all this, sat up on a stool and wiggled his shoulders back and forth. He had one of the machines in hand, dangling a chord over his hip. Harper blinked as he realized Mr. Fell had removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing the swirling tail of a snake that started at his left wrist and apparently looped up around his arm, slipped across his shoulders, and down to the other side where the head peaked at his right wrist, not quite breaching his hands so he could indeed hide them with his sleeves buttoned down at the bottom. There were little golden streaks of what looked like lightening up near his elbows.

“Whoa,” Harper whispered, which was a common expression to seeing Mr. Fell’s ink. Enough that Mr. Fell didn’t react more than tapping his foot on the chair next to Adam.

“And you can sit here,” Mr. Fell said, his attention on the armrest next to Adam and the forearm waiting atop it. He licked his bottom lip, tapped the pedal, and dipped his needles into the ink like a quill.

The tattoo machine was amazingly quiet. They had had impressions of loud clattering, an engine grinding out, but it purred so gently as Aziraphale put the first stroke to Adam’s skin. Adam jumped, which prompted Mr. Fell to shift in his seat and brace his arm across the crease of Adam’s elbow. He moved effortlessly, his lip buttoned up with his tongue as he concentrated on the linework.

Harper took Adam’s hand. Of course.

“Don’t just lay there.”

“I can lay where I like,” Crowley retorted, avoided Anathema’s attempts to brush him off the counter.

“You’re in the way.”

“Of _what_.” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.

Harper had a good line of sight in the seat to look at Adam’s face—he was pushing his lips in and out at each new line. His fault, perhaps, for picking something with big swatches of color that needed the cluster of filler needles instead of the delicate linework of a single-needle design, but, still, it was going to look wicked—and the counter where Anathema and Crowley were gently bickering. They bickered like long friends. It made him smile without knowing why. Even more so when Anathema gathered the hem of her dress up and pointedly stepped over Crowley’s long legs to get to Newt, who had gathered up all his items to be disinfected and looked sheepishly up at his fiancé to help.

“Right. I’m gonna head over to the café. Angel?”

“Cranberry muffin if they have it,” Aziraphale answered without looking up.

Crowley gave a little nod, muttered a little, “right,” to himself, and pointed a knuckle in Anathema and Newt’s directions. They rattled off requests in that Anathema rattled off requests and cupped Newt’s face and kissed his nose when he said he didn’t want to be a bother. Then Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed at Harper and Adam in the chair.

“You two?”

“O-oh? Uh. I mean, I don’t—”

“My treat, if you come and help me carry everything back,” Crowley said. Harper looked up at Adam, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb. “Tick-tock. I’ve only got all day.”

“Yeah, get me something. You know what I like,” Adam muttered to Harper, squeezing his fingers extra tight before he let go. “Sorry, ‘m I moving too much?”

“Mmhmm,” Aziraphale answered, his voice soft and distant, not exactly paying attention to them. He pressed Adam’s arm down and drew out the gauzy halo around the first twist in the branches. When he pulled up to get more ink, Adam quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing it into Harper’s hands. Crowley claimed he’d pay, but it was always good to bring your own money, just in case. Well, not your own. Adam’s money. Adam winked and settled before Aziraphale got back to work.

-•-

There was a little unaffiliated coffee shop just down the street, the whole block apparently an artsy community of tattoo parlors, flower shops, cafes, boutiques and the likes. It spoke of a bubble of a community that snubbed their noses at the conventional while being pretty daringly conventional all the same. You could find this sort’ve street a hundred times over across the globe. A thousand times over. A million, even. Still. It was quaint and secluded enough that he felt sort’ve special, if a bit odd while walking beside Crowley.

“So, you just follow what everyone says all the time?” Crowley asked, somehow a little ahead or a little behind however Harper was walking. It was annoying as Harper thought it rude to get too far away from him and attempted to match his impossible pace. “Or is today just a special day?”

Harper stuttered to a stop, Crowley easily ghosting past him.

“No,” he answered automatically, frowning at the sidewalk.

“Keep up,” Crowley ordered, and Harper found himself trailing after him again.

The coffee shop sat back from the sidewalk, casting a longer shadow than the rest. Seemed appropriate, given the name.

“Fly In Your Cup?” Harper stared at the jagged red letters of the sign. “Nobody wants a fly in their cup, do they? That’s…did they mean fly on the wall?”

“They did not,” Crowley answered and waited for Harper to open the door. He fumbled, went forward, and opened it before he realized he was being chivalrous to this perfectly strange stranger. He stared at the sidewalk a moment[8], considering a nice _what the hell’s wrong with me?_

Generally speaking, Harper found that the private coffee shops had a sort’ve darker, muskier smell than the standard stale package smell of the chains. Not that dark and musky was bad. It was inviting. It spelled smoke over beaten up tables and secrets slipped into the cracked booth in the back. It gave artisanal—not good, but strange—modifications to the standards of _Americano_ and _latte_ and _black coffee_. It bled the mantra of desperate time call for desperate measures. That last one wasn’t true of all coffee shops. It just felt true _here_.

“No.”

Harper looked up to the little donut-like counter at the back. There was an old chalkboard behind it littered with so many tiny print options that it read like an ancient and evil tome. He was certain he spotted the word “Satan” on there three times at least.

“C’mon. Look, I’ve got money this time and everything.”

“You’re gonna get a bucket to the head izzzz what.”

“I tried that one already, in fact. How’s he doing?”

“Not talking to _you_.”

The person behind the counter had a dingy mop of black hair clipped unevenly at the bangs. They kept some of it out of their eyes with two red jeweled clips at the temples that, when they bobbed their head left or right, could be mistaken for a second set of eyes. It matched the red splash of color over their apron that cut the fabric like a sash. There was a port wine stain on their cheek that tracked towards the bridge of their nose.

“Is it ‘cause I ruined his precious little outfit?” Crowley asked, tilting his chin up and dragging out the sibilants of his speech. Harper felt oddly embarrassed for him and took a step back.[9] “Models. They’re all the same.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re a tit. You’re out.”

“Yeah, I know I’m out. I’ve _been_ out. Still. Give us a coffee, Bee. For old time’s sake?”

Bee smiled, which looked very strange on their perfectly placid face. They reached over to the stack of coffee cups with an amusing little fly cartoon and the same red scratchy font labeled over the center. The fly, apparently, had a little crown atop its head. Looked kinda cute. Still not appetizing to think of a fly in his cup. But still cute.

Harper watched as Bee took the cup, brought it over to a carafe, and filled it up to the top. It was warm and dark and smelled like the kind of good coffee adverts pretend their coffee smells like in that blissful capitalist hell of a morning painted on a glossy print in a magazine. Crowley didn’t even reach for it. Harper almost did, because Bee held it out for a solid thirty seconds before they upended the cup on their counter, splashing Crowley’s jeans near his crotch. He stepped back and wiped away the mess, not putting up as much of a fuss as one would expect from getting hot coffee splashed on them.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, and grabbed for a wad of napkins out of a dispensary to their left. Bee clapped their hand on it to stop him. “Al_right_. You feel good about yourself?”

“Yezzz.”

“And _now_ can I have my order?”

Bee tilted their head to the left, almost inhumanely far. It popped several times and probably felt wonderful, but it _looked_ painful. Then they rolled their eyes and scoffed before flapping their fingers in a grabbing motion to spur Crowley into ordering. After he was done, he tilted his hip to Harper and did the same little gesture.

“Oh. Wait, me?”

“Yeah, I promised. C’mon.”

“You’re with him,” Bee answered, their voice a low drone that wormed into his head, despite their mild speech impediment. Possibly even spurned on. It wasn’t worming its way in. It was digging, crawling in like a fly through his ear canal. Harper did his best to suppress a shiver.

“Right. Uh.” The sign looked worse the more he stared at it. Those couldn’t be words. Those were not words. Those were barely sigils, and the more he stared, the worse they devolved into chaos. Which was _stupid_, because Harper _worked_ in a coffee shop. He blinked twice to clear his head. “The dark roast in a 16 ounce and a short latte with whatever sweetener you got.”

“Sweetener,” Bee repeated and rolled their eyes again.

“Whatever you got,” Harper repeated in the same banal tone, deciding attitude could be matched with attitude.

Bee licked their front teeth and punched in a random sequence into an antique looking register, which clacked and clamored with the abuse. The drawer popped open and Harper had some money from Adam’s wallet—Jesus _Christ_, he felt like a fucking putz, he was going to have to pay him back, but not until next paycheck because fucking fuck of course—when Crowley slid a black card across the counter for Bee to pick up. Harper glanced up, catching his profile, catching what looked like amber-warm eyes behind his stupid sunglasses. He grinned, twisted about, and clapped Harper’s shoulder.

“On the house,” he said, only for Bee to clear their throat while they worked on the orders. “On me. Whichever. Shut up, Bee.”

“Fuck you, Crowley.”

Crowley jabbed two fingers in the air and stuck out his tongue for good measure. Harper watched him from the side, not in awe, not in embarrassment, just in general confusion.

“They hate you,” he said evenly. Crowley nodded, angling himself against the counter at a forty-five degree angle. “And you keep coming back.” Another nod, just as he was studying his fingernails. “Because you want to piss them off?”

“Because they can’t keep me out,” Crowley corrected, and stood to his full height. A wrapped muffin came into view just before it was summarily smashed into his arm. Crowley grabbed it anyways. “You’re trying to ruin my clothes.”

“For Ligur,” Bee whispered and grinned that empty, evil grin again.

“Right, get me another one or else Aziraphale’s gonna send me back over here for a replacement and we’ll do this whole song and dance all over again.” As Bee disappeared through a swinging door, Crowley leaned over the counter and waved. “Love ya!”

Twenty seconds later, they had muffins, numerous coffees, three crumpled sugar packets, and the door slamming shut after them. Harper blinked at the light and down at his hands and up at Crowley, who was whistling over the top of his cup as he sauntered back to Heavenly Touch Ink.

Harper, again, of course, _of course_, followed after.

-•-

“Well, perhaps they finally snapped and ate Crow—oh, no, here they are!” Anathema got the door open, so Crowley and Harper could return victorious without any spilled drinks. At least, none of the drinks spilled that they were currently carrying. “They got you again, didn’t they?”

“I’m not apologizing,” Crowley answered smugly. “It was hilarious when it happened. I stand by it. That stupid fuschia beret needed a good washing anyways.”

She hummed an answer, which wasn’t an answer at all, except that it was, and took two drinks out of his hands for herself and Newt. Harper circumvented the couple and Mr. Crowley to get back over to Adam, who was biting his knuckle. Harper plopped right down in the empty seat beside him, pressing the hot latte against Adam’s elbow. Not enough to burn him, just to get his attention. Adam squeaked and looked up while Aziraphale kept Adam’s arm clamped down to the armrest with his body weight.

“You’re such a baby,” Harper teased, helping Adam take the drink.

“Yeah, thanks,” he wheezed back. “Yeah, it’s ow ow _ow_.”

“Too hot?” Adam shook his head. Harper craned his and looked over where Mr. Fell was adding the last detail to the right arm. “Well. One down? One to go?”

“Take that,” Adam ordered, pushing the coffee back into Harper’s hands. He sighed, did as told, and set it down just before Adam yanked Harper’s hand up to his chest and clamped it there. He stayed there, slightly sweaty, twitching, until the final stroke curled gracefully towards his wrist. Adam sighed out a big gust of air, his forehead lolling over to Harper’s shoulder. “I am,” he finally said.

“What?”

“I’m a baby.”

“Oh.” Harper laughed and pushed away some of Adam’s sweaty bangs before they curtained off his eyes. “Yeah. You are.”

There were some damp towels, some rubbing solution, some application of a thin plastic-like skin over the top of it for healing. Adam didn’t even look at it, deciding it was much nicer to just get a rest in against Harper’s shoulder. Harper was not going to complain.

“Now for the next one,” Mr. Fell announced cheerily, gently swaying his hips back and forth on his stool. “Right up here, we’ll get it done lickety split.”

“Tickety boo,” Crowley announced across the shop.

“That too,” Aziraphale answered with a happy nod. He patted the arm rest. “Come then.”

Adam didn’t even look at his tattoo. He just nudged Harper to move around the chair and slapped his left arm up on the rest like he was about to participate in a life-or-death-stakes arm wrestling match. Mr. Fell simply smiled and laid him out as needed, getting started right away on the next one. Harper stationed himself next to Adam and took his hand up again.

For being the coolest person in the whole world, Adam was a fidgety bastard and had the pain tolerance of a gnat. Harper thought he was going to get his hand crushed. A worthy sacrifice. He teased Adam, laughed with him, even got him to drink some of the latte just because—damn good cup of coffee. Smooth as hell, actually.

With proper distraction, Adam sat better and Aziraphale was able to work quickly without having to throw his body weight over the poor lad’s arm. He twisted about once or twice, but he built the image up in the same vibrant colors. They sprigs radiated, temporarily aided by irritated flesh, but still just lovely. When he finished, he cleaned Adam off and explained his aftercare in quiet, careful tones, even as he was shucking off his gloves and reaching for the little muffin waiting for him.

“So?” Mr. Fell chewed and quickly dabbed at the corner of his mouth before nodding at Adam’s arms. “How do you like it?”

Adam peeled himself off Harper’s chest to finally compare. One of them was wrapped up, sure, but the sheeting over it was still see-through. He pressed them together. His forearms were slightly swollen and red and, frankly, leaking plasma. But they looked beautiful.

“Oh,” Adam whispered. “They’re perfect.”

“Good. Come back in two…hmm…three weeks from now.” Mr. Fell was looking at a cluttered calendar, only a few spots speckled with actual tattoo appointments. He had a full schedule, nonetheless. “Yes. Three weeks from now. So I can get pictures, dear.”

“Course,” Adam answered, touching the skin around the tattoo without touching the image itself. His eyes were glued to it. He was going to be staring at it all day after. Probably deserved it. They were gorgeous pieces.

The two nearly left without paying, unintentionally. Mr. Fell never brought it up and Newt and Anathema were fawning over the tattoos. Even Crowley joined in, slipped in against Aziraphale with his arm casually slung over the tattoo artist and tracing his fingers across the snake tattoo on the man’s arms. They all agreed that the ink was lovely.

“Madlyn’s did you right,” Crowley commented. “That hot pink?”

“Brilliant, I said, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Of course, Adam finally remembered just as he was out the door and came back, patting his pockets, then Harper’s, retrieving his wallet. They payed and tipped Mr. Fell, thanking them all profusely for the wonderful afternoon. Harper hung by the door, watching and waiting for Adam to pluck himself out of the group again so they could head to the car. He slipped in, same as Mr. Crowley did to Mr. Fell, and took Harper’s hand again. It felt natural, after all that time earlier.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Harper said, walking with him back down the street, his eyes tracking slowly towards the sidewalk.

“Wouldn’t want anybody else.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Nah.” Adam laughed up towards the bright sky and bumped their shoulders together. “This was an adventure! Look at us! Cool as cucumbers! Tough as nails! Marked for—”

Harper really was a follower. He followed Adam to work at the coffee shop. He followed his brother to live in that apartment. He followed along to Heavenly Touch Ink behind them, and to get a piercing he didn’t intend but sort’ve loved, and to the weird little coffee shop next door that might haunt his dreams and he’d follow all around the city, if Adam was driving. He was a follower. And that was okay. And it wasn’t okay. And he turned quickly, either built up on adrenaline or the strange concoction from Bee’s coffee or the bright day or getting to feel Adam trust him enough to hug him through his tattoo or Anathema’s kind eyes or Newt’s nervous smile or Crowley’s sarcastic encouragement and Aziraphale’s gentle touch or just because. Just because, he cut Adam off with a quick kiss.

No.

Fuck!

Harper pulled back like he had been shocked, unfortunately tethered to Adam by their interlaced fingers. He covered his mouth and stared at his best friend in the whole bloody world.

“I mean!”

“Why’d you do that?” Adam whispered. He didn’t look horrified. He didn’t _sound_ horrified. But Harper’s ears were ringing, so he wasn’t exactly certain what anything sounded like. He tried pulling away iagain, but Adam gripped him tighter. “Harp…why’d you do that?”

“I don’t know!”

Harper yanked loose, ready to gnaw his arm off. His hands were slippery, and he got out of Adam’s grip just so he could clutch his head. His hand barely missed his new piercing. He winced at the distant burn. His eyes screwed shut as he waited for it to pass, blindly walking backwards before something hooked him around the waist and pulled him back in. He gasped when Adam kissed him back.

“You’re _such_ a baby,” Adam whispered affectionately.

“You are,” Harper answered, his voice shaky and low, wrestling with whether he should laugh or cry.

“’Kay, fine, I’m a baby,” Adam answered with a big huff, rolling his eyes to the sky again. “You’re slow as hell.”

“Fuck you.” Harper shoved at Adam’s chest, but stuck close enough that they could reunite again.

“Oo, after the first date?” Harper blushed at Adam’s teasing, ducking away before Adam cupped his cheek and kissed it again. Was he dying? Was he the luckiest person in the world? “I take it back. You do move fast.”

“…date?”

Adam shrugged. He shook out his hair, raking it away from his eyes, laughing brightly. His ancient painting, his muse, his fucking annoying and wonderful coworker. His…_baby_.

Harper blushed harder, nearly hiding in his hands until he remembered his piercing and pushed his knuckles into his eye sockets instead. Adam worked one of his hands away from his face and laced their fingers.

“C’mon. Let’s go find lunch.”

And Harper followed.

-•-

“Every time.” Crowley shoved away from the couch where he, Anathema, and Newt had been pressed against the glass to watch the two youths leave. “You’re a nuisance, Angel.”

Aziraphale sat primly on his stool, looking chuffed. He grinned a cat grin over the top of his cup of coffee before he took a sip.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Actually, no,” Aziraphale answered, still smiling like a smug bastard. “But I’m glad to be right about them.”

Anathema nudged Newt’s shoulder. He glanced down, sighed, and fished out a tenner. “We’re getting _married_,” he stated as Anathema kissed his cheek and collected her bet.

“Yeah. They have some good ideas,” Crowley remarked, slithering back across the parlor as _everybody plays the game_ cooed out of the speakers around them. He braced Aziraphale’s seat against the standing tool cabinet and cupped his near-glowing face, stealing a kiss. Taking a kiss. _Enjoying_ a kiss. Enjoying, absolutely, because Aziraphale gave it to him freely, like he did most affections. He loved. It was the best quality of the place. It melted into his work, same as Crowley melted into his lap. Love melted into the shop and back out into the world, where it belonged.

[1] He did not.

[2] Here, behaving means that none of the flowers were as beautiful, as lush, as perfect as poor Mr. Crowley desired to show the exact breadth and depth of his unfortunate love for Mr. Fell and therefore he was embarrassed to even dream of arranging a single flower with a nice little note that said “Angel, you’re the bee’s knees and I’d like to marry you tomorrow if that’s alright,” so he was required, for his own self-preservation, to squash that down as quickly and as violently as possible. Additional squashing was merely collateral damage and it came in the form of squashing Mr. Fell’s spirits because of course it did; Mr. Crowley’s a self-appointed tit.

[3] No news on a new Last Witch of England, but bets were on the table that sweet Anathema Device would be pregnant by next September. No rush, just a simple hunch. Plans were already in place for the baby shower, namely that Aziraphale already knew the bakery he was going to buy sweets from and Crowley had knitted three jumpers for the little Hellion with one that included “hoofie woofies” as a strange and unexplained joke.

[4] By all rights, it should be the most popular shop in London, given that it grew the most exotic fauna in the region with the most verdant displays. Mr. Crowley, like Mr. Fell, made it nearly impossible to make the shop popular with odd hours and a displeasing disposition. Not awful, just standoffish. Truth be told, it was a trait shared by both when they didn’t like the individual who came in for goods and/or services and made them generally bad businessmen. They should have closed down in the first week. Miracles are inexplicable like that.

[5] Or perhaps in a kid’s cartoon show, an adult comedy show, or a sort’ve funny proctologist’s office.

[6] read: permanent

[7] “The Seven Seas of Rhye” came out on the album _Queen_ by Queen in 1973. Rock on.

[8] Sidewalks can be very interesting. They can also be very boring, which is helpful when one needs to re-calibrate their brain, which is something Harper has found himself doing several times this very day, poor lad.

[9] It should be noted, Crowley is not making fun of Bee(lzebub’s (oh, that’s right, named after Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of Flies, general bastard and really bad at poker (maybe))) speech. Is he more comfortable hissing in front of an “old friend?” Depends on your definition of comfortable. And old. And friend. And hissing, if we’re honest. Point is, the man’s got weird habits and no one should do their best to categorize them.


End file.
